


Untitled

by evilgiraff



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 16:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilgiraff/pseuds/evilgiraff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A picture is worth a thousand words. HP/DM Post-Hogwarts, EWE though generally otherwise canon-compliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to Omi, for her excellent (and quick!) beta skills, and to Never for hand-holding, as always. Thanks should also go to Sara's Girl, who has got me utterly hooked on Drarry in general, and her stories in particular. There are a few elements of this story which have been inspired by her writing, although I hope I haven't actually stolen anything. Any mentions of spiders or fishes are all for her.
> 
> The world of Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling, and not to me. This makes me rather sad. This story is all mine, though.

It's an ordinary sort of Saturday when Hermione knocks on the door of number twelve. As soon as Harry sees her, the half-forgotten promise he made several weeks ago jumps into the forefront of his mind. His complete lack of readiness is immediately obvious, causing Hermione's cheerful expression to dissolve into an exasperation that Harry knows he inspires more often than he'd like. She's his friend, after all, but right now all he really wants to do is stay on the sofa on his own.

“Really, Hermione?” Harry's voice is weary and pleading. “Do I have to go?”

She throws him an irritated glance before pushing his coat and scarf at him. “Yes, you do. You said you'd come with me and give the exhibition a bit more publicity just from being there. You only have to stay for an hour or so, enough to let the _Prophet_ notice you're there, and then you can go home.”

Harry groans and levers himself up off the sofa, casting a longing look at his unread novel while he winds the tattered old Gryffindor scarf around his neck. It seems like overkill – it's not that cold, just a crisply bright spring morning – but he has more sense than to push Hermione any more right now. He follows her out of the house, wincing as the harsh sunlight hits his eyes, then feels her hand take his and pull him into a Side-Along Apparition that he's not really ready for.

As they land on a quiet street Harry staggers slightly, regaining his balance by clutching at Hermione. His ungainly flailing brings a smile to her face for the first time since he'd opened his door, reminding him of the promise he'd made to accompany her to this... occasion. He doesn't even know what it is, or why it's important to her.

Hermione pulls him into a brief hug. “I'm sorry, Harry, it's just that poor Rhian is having a hell of a time trying to pull in business, and the exhibition might give business a bit of a boost. And I know you don't like being famous, but the fact remains you are, and it might make the world of difference to have your name associated with her place. You might find something you like, anyway. I promise I'll buy you a drink to make it up to you.”

Harry smiles at her as they continue walking down the narrow, cobbled street away from the Apparition point. He doesn't mind, not really. It's only a morning of his life, after all, and he's relieved that the irritation he's inspired in one of his oldest friends hasn't lasted too long. He puts an arm around her shoulder and kisses the top of her head, answering her smile with one of his own when she glances up at him. The gallery is easily visible as they approach, with a shimmering sign proclaiming the first day of the exhibition hovering outside the door. It's an inviting building, one in a tightly-packed row of old shops that could have seen many different uses over the years. The large window is the only apparent concession to the current purpose of the building, allowing what little light that can sneak into the street into the open front room.

Inside, it seems lighter than it has any right to be, considering the low ceilings. Harry is looking vaguely for the signs of illumination charms when he finds himself addressed by the owner of the gallery – Hermione's friend Rhian, he assumes – and drawn over to the first section of the works forming the exhibition. He nods, smiles, and makes small talk while trying to disguise his lack of interest in the clashing colours and twisted anatomy that make up the pieces of sculpture fussily arrayed in front of him. She's a nice person, but he struggles to keep track of the conversation, especially when he spots the people from the _Prophet_ snapping their picture.

When Rhian is called over to a prospective customer – the journalists trailing after her – Harry breathes a covert sigh of relief and immediately wanders further into the gallery, hoping to avoid further notice. He meanders past seemingly endless painted animals, ducks under a particularly obnoxious hanging mobile – who would want tiny faces spinning and laughing at them all the time, anyway? – and finds himself alone at last in a room full of photographs.

At first glance, they look Muggle – they're still, monochromatic, and form a sharp contrast to the high intensity primary colours of the previous room. Appreciative of the peacefulness of this room, he goes to investigate the nearest one. He's admiring the bare branches of the trees in the picture, the way they twist and reach against the sky, when the idea that there's something not quite right about it creeps into his mind. Peering closer, he stares at it for several minutes before realisation dawns. It's not a Muggle photo, it seems to be an unusual combination of Muggle and wizarding. The shadows cast by the trees are slowly moving in a perfectly choreographed dance across the grass, but the birds in the sky are absolutely still. Intrigued, he moves on to the next one.

He sees sailing boats fighting the wind on unmoving waves, clouds floating past stationary kites, and tendrils of seaweed caressing motionless fish. It's a feat of charmwork and artistic vision, and Harry doesn't want to think about how long the artist must have spent painstakingly picking out which elements of each picture should be allowed to develop in a normal wizarding way, and which should be arrested at the moment of capture. He's a little shocked when Hermione finds him and informs him that he's been there for an entire hour.

“Look, though,” he says, gesturing around the room. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

Hermione's face twists into a strange little smile as she informs him that no, she's not seen anything like it, but he could always buy one, if he likes them that much.

“You know, I might just do that.”

Rhian is delighted, and the sight of the tree photo receiving a small “sold” sticker on the frame goes some way towards assuaging Harry's reluctance to leave the room. They make arrangements for Harry to pick it up later that day, and Harry walks out of the gallery alongside Hermione feeling distinctly pleased with himself.

**:::::**

Harry finds himself visiting Rhian's gallery fairly regularly, after that. He goes on Saturday mornings, and lets the peace of the room full of peculiar photographs soothe the inevitable frustrations that arise over each week he spends in the Auror office trying to piece together the motivations behind Dark-linked crimes. Every time there's a new picture, he gets an odd thrill of achievement when he works out all the moving parts. Sometimes they're obvious, and other times the entire picture seems Muggle, until he spots something as tiny as a lone insect crawling across a branch.

He's usually left alone with the pictures – which are slowly becoming, in his mind, _his_ pictures – but when he takes a rare day off work, Harry is at first irritated and then incredulous when there's someone else in the room as he strolls inside with a cheery good-morning wave to Rhian. It's not just a stranger, it's _Malfoy_. In _his_ room. The schoolboy hostility that he thought he'd grown out of rises up in Harry's throat as Malfoy turns from a new – new! – photograph and blinks at him in surprise.

Trying to appear the professional adult that he suspects he'll never really be, Harry smiles wanly.

“Morning, Malfoy.”

Malfoy gives a tight little smile in return. “Good morning, Potter.”

Unable to see the new picture with Malfoy partially obscuring it, Harry steps closer to him, and nods at the walls. “Good, aren't they?”

“I think so, yes.” Malfoy seems taken aback, and steps sideways to allow Harry room.

The new picture is a more complex one than the other most recent additions, and by the time Harry finds the moving part (a spider spinning a web, although there are no flies for it to catch that Harry can see), he's almost forgotten Malfoy was ever there. He chuckles to himself with a sense of quiet triumph, and is startled when Malfoy's sharply upper-class accent breaks the silence once more.

“Do you like it?”

Harry's pleased smile is still on his face as he turns to Malfoy. “Of course I like it. I like them all.” He waves vaguely at the new picture. “Did you find it? The spider? I love finding these little moving bits.”

“I'm glad you find art so entertaining.” Malfoy's voice is dry, and the note of disdain is unmistakable, though his eyes are warm with humour.

Harry immediately bristles. “No, it's not that.” Malfoy raises a doubtful eyebrow, and Harry feels compelled to elaborate. “It's the time involved, the effort, the skill.” He waves at one that shows a flock of birds being buffeted by a strong wind, while the trees below them are serene. “Think about how long that must have taken. The charm work alone is astonishing, never mind the 'art' as well. And anyway,” he finishes, crossing his arms in a manner which is more petulant than he was hoping for, “who cares why I like it? I do like it, so that's enough.”

Malfoy's eyes, which have been examining at the photograph during Harry's small rant, flick up to meet Harry's and widen in surprise.

“Indeed.” A smile creeps softly over Malfoy's face, and this time it seems like he means it. The rarely-seen gentleness on his face drains the antagonism right out of Harry, and he grins back.

**:::::**

Harry sees Malfoy at the gallery regularly after that, though he's back to his Saturday morning ritual visits. They talk about the pictures, and Malfoy always raises an eyebrow at Harry's pleasure at finding the small, moving details.

One week, Malfoy – to Harry's amusement – charms Rhian into making cups of tea for them. His look of good-natured triumph as she hands him a steaming mug is enough to make Harry laugh out loud. Harry jabs his elbow into Malfoy's ribs.

“No need to look quite so smug, Malfoy,” he teases, as Malfoy sends a mildly affronted look his way. “It's only tea.”

Malfoy's retort and objection to the bruising he's received are cut off by Rhian. “Only tea, is it? Well, you can make it next time, then, and one for me too.”

The ritual tea-making soon becomes part of their little routine. Malfoy is always at the gallery first, looking at the newest picture, and when Harry arrives he heads straight for the kettle in Rhian's little office. On weeks where there's no new picture to look at, Harry is at first surprised and then pleased to find that they still find things to talk about it. By silent agreement, they never mention their families or their schooldays, but stick to safer topics – although Quidditch skirts dangerously close to reminiscing. Sometimes seemingly innocuous topics can spark memories that one or both of them would rather not revisit.

On a day where the gallery seems full of new pieces, Harry remarks on a collection of tiny insect sculptures, each one made from wire so thin he's almost afraid to touch them.

“My father would have liked this one,” Malfoy says quietly as he holds up a dragonfly, its wings shivering with the faint trembling of his hand. Every response Harry can think of sounds either false or judgemental, and in the end he simply reaches out to lay his hand on Malfoy's shoulder, hoping that it provides some comfort as Malfoy blinks away the sorrow in his eyes.

**:::::**

It's on a considerably less emotional day, as they look at a new photograph, that Harry brings up a question that has been in the back of his mind for a while.

“I wonder why there's never any people. There's animals, plants, creepy-crawlies–”

“Creepy-crawlies, as you so eloquently put it, _are_ animals, Potter,” Malfoy interrupts.

Harry waves a hand irritably. “That's irrelevant. There's never any people. Not in any of them. Doesn't that strike you as odd?”

Malfoy is uncharacteristically lost for a response, settling for a simple “No, not really,” when he's rescued by Rhian.

“There will be people soon, though, Harry. He's going to be one of our featured artists next month, and the theme is apparently 'self', so I'll be intrigued if he manages that without including people.” She beams at them both.

Malfoy sends her a tight-lipped smile, nods to Harry, and whisks out of the door so quickly that Harry is left feeling somewhat confused.

“Bye, Draco,” Rhian calls as the door to the gallery swings closed behind him. She winks at Harry, before returning to her sales pitch. “I think it'll be a good little collection. Interesting to see what goes on in the head of an artist, eh? What he thinks of himself, _et_ _cetera_.”

“Mmm,” Harry responds, his eyes still fixed confusedly on the space where Malfoy was standing a minute ago. “Yes, should be good.”

**:::::**

Harry doesn't see Malfoy at the gallery for the next couple of weeks. Realising that spending a couple of hours at an art gallery in the company of Draco Malfoy has become not only a habitual way of starting his weekend, but also a pleasurable experience, has Harry laughing gently at himself. All the same, on the second week he makes time to visit on the Sunday morning as well, on the off chance that he'll be there. He can't quite keep the disappointment from his face each time he greets Rhian and realises she's alone.

On the third Saturday, Harry is there so early that he has to peer through the windows from the outside, waiting for Rhian to arrive and unlock the door.

“Good grief, Harry, you look agitated. Come in, come in,” she says, pushing the door open and ushering him inside. She moves around, turning on lights and flicking her wand at the illumination charms that Harry still can't quite pinpoint the location of while Harry pokes listlessly at an ugly ceramic cat.

“I think he'll be in today,” Rhian says, into the silence. “I told him you'd gone all moody and weird without his company.”

Harry whirls around, staring at her open-mouthed. “What? I haven't been weird.”

“Yes, you have. You're normally here almost until lunchtime, the two of you, arguing and laughing, and carrying on. It's a good thing you're both pretty, or you'd scare off my customers,” she muses. “Anyway, he's obviously been busy, so you've gone all moody and only been here for ten minutes at a time because no-one else will do.”

“Really?” He's not sure what he's asking, just incredulous that his developing friendship with Malfoy is so obvious.

“Yes, really. Now stop leaving fingerprints all over the sculptures and go commune with your photographs, or whatever it is that you do.” Rhian shoos him away with the curious hand-flapping movement that seems to be solely the province of women, and Harry dutifully obeys.

He's trying to find the spinning spider again, tuning out the sound of other people bustling around the shop, when Malfoy's voice cuts through the babble. It's a simple good-morning greeting, but Harry can't help the smile breaking across his face as he turns.

“Morning, Malfoy,” he says, and he doesn't care what Rhian thinks about him being moody last week, because he sure as hell isn't moody now. “Where have you been all this time?”

“I've been busy,” is the reply. It's characteristically unhelpful, and it only makes Harry grin more. Malfoy looks stressed, their little arty haven seemingly failing to provide the escape that it usually does for him as well as Harry.

“You look it,” Harry says, aware that he's needling Malfoy for no real reason other than that it's been weeks since he's heard his voice, and he needs to provoke him into talking.

Malfoy scowls at him. “Yes, thank you, Potter, that's very helpful I'm sure. I have plenty of things I could be getting on with but instead I'm here because I'm reliably informed that you're going all melodramatic without my company.” He huffs, folds his arms, and the scowl deepens. “And what do I get? I get berated about my whereabouts and insulted about my appearance.”

“Rhian isn't a reliable source,” Harry says, ignoring the exasperated look Malfoy sends him as he ignores everything except the most trivial comment. “She thinks we're pretty.”

It's only as Harry says this, though, that he can see that she's at least half right. Even looking stressed and grumpy, Malfoy is arresting, especially with the gallery lighting which is, after all, designed to show off beautiful things. Malfoy's eyes glitter dangerously and Harry's mouth goes dry.

“She is extremely reliable,” Malfoy says, apparently unaware of Harry's small epiphany. “We _are_ pretty. I am obviously perfectly beautiful, and you are not without your charms.” He waves a negligent hand at Harry, and the scowl slips off his face at last.

“You think I'm pretty?”

Malfoy sighs. “You have been in _Witch_ _Weekly's_ 'Top Ten Most Eligible Bachelors' list every year since you left school. I think that probably speaks for itself.” He looks pointedly at Harry. “Now, I'm having a rather strained week, and am in need of a drink. As at least part of the reason for my state of mind, I think you should provide it.”

“Are you asking me out, Malfoy?” Harry's grin widens as Malfoy's eyes narrow, and cuts him off before he can begin another miniature rant. “Either way, yes, I'll buy you a coffee. Or tea. I might even stretch to a biscuit or something too.”

**:::::**

When the day of the photograph exhibition dawns, Harry is running late. A last-minute case breakthrough the previous day has kept several of the Auror office up half the night making arrests and filling out endless chain-of-custody forms for everything from crime-scene evidence to inmate property, to the inmates themselves. It's gone ten o'clock by the time Harry blearily opens his eyes, and is almost noon when, his hair still shower-wet, he finally pushes through the door and greets Rhian.

“I think it's going well,” she says, gesturing towards the photograph room. “He's been uptight all morning, but on the whole I think it's going down okay.”

Harry glances at her quizzically, then hurries over to the doorway where Malfoy stands, waiting for him.

“Sorry I'm late. Work, you know.” He rubs at the back of his neck and smiles apologetically.

Malfoy is, as Rhian said, uptight and almost quivering with tension. He smiles tightly. “It's supposed to be 'a study of self', but I couldn't... I didn't _want_ to share this. It's too... personal.” He barks a short laugh. “That's the point of the whole thing, obviously, but this is a step too far for me. Clearly, I'm just as spineless as ever.” He thrusts a wrapped package into Harry's hands and walks off, his retreating back stiff as Harry stares at him, then at the package, any possible response dying on his lips.

As Harry wanders into the photograph room, he's surrounded by pictures of people. They are, as usual, in simple black and white, and he's relieved that even with the change in subject matter, the styling is the same, the characteristics of the photography still captivating. He blames the confusion stemming from his late night and Malfoy's odd behaviour on why it takes him so long for the penny to drop. These pictures are all of people – one person – as is fitting for a collection entitled 'a study of self'. Every single one is of Malfoy.

There are pictures of him looking pensively away from the camera, curled up on a sofa with a book, and hidden behind the lens of a camera. There's a short series of him bending over trays, dipping photographic paper into unnamed potions one after the other. There's one of his fingers wrapped around a coffee cup. Harry is surrounded by Malfoy, and is shocked both that his new friend has been his favourite artist all along, and that he has laid himself so bare to the world in these photographs.

He trails from picture to picture in something of a daze. The last few pictures are bigger than the others. The first of these is difficult to work out until the perspective clicks, and the intricate swirling pattern of black, grey, and creamy white resolves itself into a small portion of the Dark Mark. Harry openly gapes at it, struggling to reconcile what the symbol stands for with the stark beauty of the picture.

The next shows Malfoy standing stiffly, his shirt sleeves pushed up around the elbows and his left arm thrust away from his body, his head turned away. The Mark is clearly visible on his flawless skin, and Malfoy's distress is equally apparent.

The last picture shows Malfoy entirely naked, facing slightly away from the camera, seated on the ground with his arms wrapped tightly around his drawn-up knees in a foetal position. His face is hidden against his thighs. It's rather reminiscent of one of the first pictures Harry ever saw in this gallery, with the clouds scudding overhead while everything else is motionless. Looking at Malfoy curled up and hiding from the world while at the same time so exposed, Harry can barely breathe.

He stands there for a long time, until someone jostles him and he comes out of his daze. He sleepwalks out of the shop and Apparates home, and it's only when he goes to open his front door that he realises he's still holding the package Malfoy gave to him.

He lays it on the kitchen table, then makes himself a cup of tea. He knows it's displacement activity, but opening the package is suddenly quite a daunting prospect. Malfoy had said that this picture was too personal – more personal than the ones he's just seen? He drinks the tea slowly, his eyes never leaving the innocuous brown parcel with his name written in the very centre in a neat script that he remembers from his schooldays. Malfoy always was a tidy sort of person, he thinks.

When the tea is all gone, and with it, his excuses, Harry's hands shake as he reaches out to peel back the paper. The photograph inside is purely wizarding. Malfoy stands on one side of the gallery, his face in profile as he studies something outside the frame. As Harry watches, Malfoy looks up, turns toward the camera, and his eyes light up, a smile transforming his habitually serious expression into a captivating beauty. He watches the little scene play out two or three times before it occurs to him to look for whatever it is that Malfoy is smiling at. The next time, he peers closely at the side of the picture when Malfoy looks up, and then sits back sharply as he sees his own image just outside the gallery door. That smile is for him.

**:::::**

The following weekend, Harry goes to the gallery as usual with his heart beating rather faster than it has done in the past. He barely notices Rhian, and fidgets in the photograph room until Rhian's cheery “morning, Draco!” rings out. As Malfoy enters the room, it's clear that he's at least as uncomfortable as Harry, his posture stiff, and his eyes everywhere but on Harry's face.

Harry's voice is scratchy, when he finds it. “They're beautiful. The photos.”

Malfoy's quiet “thank you” is a relief.

“I can't believe you never told me it was you all along.”

At this, Malfoy finally glances up at him with a soft snort. “I might have done, if you hadn't said you liked them. But... you did. I didn't want to change your mind.”

Harry closes his eyes, Malfoy's insecurity touching him somewhere painful. He takes a deep breath before continuing. “I do like them. I like all of them.” He crosses the room, gets close enough to Malfoy that he can see his chest rising and falling with too-quick breaths. “I like _you_ , Malfoy. Draco.”

Malfoy looks at him then, the first time Harry's called him by his given name. “'Draco'?” he asks, with an attempt at raising his usual quizzical eyebrow.

Harry laughs shakily, then gestures at the last picture hanging on the wall. “It's the least I can do, now I've seen you naked.”

Draco's own shaky laugh is quiet, and his eyes meet Harry's with a kind of nervous, hopeful humour that makes Harry tremble.

“You don't look too well,” Harry says. “I think I might need to provide you with coffee again.”

Draco follows Harry out of the gallery, up the street, and holds on tight when Harry pulls him in a Side-Along to Grimmauld Place. Harry doesn't let him go, and clumsily fumbles his way through the door one-handed. Draco doesn't say a word until he sees his gift to Harry in the kitchen.

“You have no idea how much effort that was to take. I had to convince Rhian to let me set up the camera and the flashes on the Friday night, and then get her to take them down while I tried to stop you noticing anything. And I had no idea what the picture would look like.”

“I like it,” Harry says, busily making coffee.

“You do?” Draco asks, from right behind Harry's ear.

Harry jumps, and coffee grounds fly across the room. He turns on the spot, and finds himself face to face with a Draco who has never been this close before. “Look what you made me do,” he says, inanely.

“Hmm,” Draco murmurs. He slides his hands over Harry's hips, and it's the last thing Harry registers before his own hands are pulling Draco close, and their lips are meeting in a kiss that's hot and fierce and desperate.

They cling to each other, tugging at buttons and struggling out of their clothes while trying to stay as close together as possible. Harry backs out of the kitchen and up the stairs, Draco's hands never letting him get more than a couple of inches away. They stumble into Harry's bedroom still kissing, until Harry hits the bed and falls backwards with an undignified shout. Draco stands at the foot of the bed, looking at him hungrily.

“Draco?” Harry says. “You're too far away.”

Those are the last real words either of them speak for some time, aside from _okay_ , and _slow_ , and _more_ , and _yes_. Harry vaguely thinks that he's never seen anything as captivating as Draco Malfoy underneath him, his legs shaking slightly as Harry pushes his fingers inside him and his eyes clear and bright. When Harry pushes into him for the first time they're both so wound up it very nearly ends right there and then, but Draco grabs at Harry and holds him immobile for several long seconds while they gasp for breath. As he releases his grip and starts to rock, the room fills with the sounds of their breathing, rough-edged and loud.

When Harry comes, it's with a swirling pattern of black and grey on a forearm under his fingers. When Draco comes, Harry knows there's a part of Draco's 'study of self' that he never wants him to share with anyone else.

The following Saturday, they go to the gallery together.


End file.
